


Tea & Toast

by MagdaTheMagpie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Manipulation, One-Sided Attraction, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 20:41:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20663465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagdaTheMagpie/pseuds/MagdaTheMagpie
Summary: John faces his own arch-enemy: Love.





	1. It all started with a Bad Day

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's not what I should be writing, but at least I'm writing...

“Worse day ever.”

Some people said that at the slightest frustration, but not John Watson. He usually made the best of a not terrible situation, but even he had his limits, and they had been crossed thrice over today, by the same person to boot. 

“I am going to  _ murder  _ him. And no one will ever know. Best detective to solve it being dead and all… Ha! That’ll be the real test to see if I haven’t learned a thing.”

Because that’s what Sherlock had belittled him for, in front of Lestrade and half the bloody Yard, right in the middle of a crime scene. He’d made him feel like a complete idiot. So what if he couldn’t deduce the manner of death from minuscule traces of nailpolish on the cap of bottle. No one else had either. And he kept telling himself that while Sherlock insulted his intelligence, but it didn’t stop his cheeks from turning a bright tomato red.

“What an utter  _ twat _ !”

John would have stormed off to make his displeasure clear, but Sherlock beat him to it and left him there in the middle of all those wide-eyed Yarders. He’d muttered an apology and ran off with his tail tucked between his legs, only to find out Sherlock hadn’t even waited for him outside. He’d buggered off in one of his magically appearing cabs no doubt and just. Fucking. Left him there! Unbelievable. He checked his phone, but Sherlock hadn’t given him any directions. He supposed he could have just gone back home.

With no idea of what else to do, John did exactly that and took the closest tube station to return to Baker Street. Maybe it was for the best. He had a date with that pretty barista he’d met the other day. A pretty redhead with freckles all the way down her cleavage. If he was lucky, he might learn how much of her creamy skin those freckles covered exactly.

Sherlock was not home, and he still had no text from him, but John was loath to send him one after the way he’d treated him. He snorted at the thought that he probably hadn’t even noticed he wasn’t around. It wouldn’t be the first time. He put him out of his mind and got ready for his date instead. He even got time to relax before and was right on time. It was going splendidly too… At first.

Then came Sherlock, out of nowhere, like a freak storm. John had no idea how he had found him, but he stomped into the small restaurant, right up to his table and began scolding him for having wandered off.  _ Wandered off _ . Seriously.

“You left me behind!” John protested.

“Well, it wasn’t hard to figure out where I’d gone. You only had to catch up.”

“What? No! I didn’t have a bloody clue where you’d gone! How was I supposed to know?”

He realized in that second he shouldn’t have asked that, not even rhetorically, because Sherlock started round two of how stupid he was.

“Stop!” John shouted, at his rope’s end.

But they were drawing a crowd and John was not going to have a bloody row in the middle of his date. He told Sherlock as much. Big mistake. His focus shifted to the poor girl, deducing every embarrassing little thing he could before voicing it out loud. It wasn’t even that bad, although if she really had a preference for dldos that large, she might have been disappointed by what she got in the bedroom. She didn’t even say a word. Simply stared at him with wide, horrified eyes full of betrayal, and ran off. Flowers weren’t going to cut it. He’d lost her. He would send an apology anyway, for his own peace of mind, but he knew she would rather never see his face ever again.

John settled the bill, thankful Sherlock had been thrown out by the uppity maitre d', even if he was still lurking outside.

“Sure.  _ Now _ you wait for me,” John muttered when he exited the restaurant he would never be dining at again.

“But-”

“No. I’m going home.”

John walked off in the general direction of Baker Street because he needed to walk off some of his frustration before he punched the git the next time he saw his face. Everyone was right. John didn’t understand how he put up with him either. Sherlock was selfish, condescending, arrogant, self-centered, unapologetic, ill-mannered, rude…

The list went on until he got home, but John was still furious. He needed to vent, to talk about it to someone or he was going to choke on his anger or do something stupid. But who would listen? Everyone around him was tired of hearing about Sherlock’s antics. They usually just rolled their eyes and told him that’s just how Sherlock was. Loads of help that was. Except Molly, but she was worse than the others because she found him all sort of reasonable excuses.

His gaze landed on his laptop. If he really wanted to vent to strangers, that’s what the internet was for, right? John settled himself comfortably and opened his laptop. He hadn’t done this in a while, but he soon found a chatroom promising relationship advice. Close enough. Everyone always assumed they were a couple anyway, and it was better than the vast majority of hook-up channels.

Signing in as Cold Toast, the only thing he had managed to eat all day because of Sherlock, John began scanning the messages to make sure he was in the right place, then he began his rant about Sherlock, but kept the reins on, just to feel out the waters. He got good responses: some honest-to-God advice, some questions, some just offered kind words to make him feel better and he took them all, he  _ needed _ them. The sympathy, the understanding, the commiseration, even the disbelief… All of those honest responses showed interest, that they cared on some superficial level, that he  _ mattered,  _ even a little. John ranted some more. It felt good to empty his bag, as if it allowed him to delete his grievances one by one as he aired them out. Soon though, another user called Tea&Biscuits offered him a private chat since his problem seemed both “urgent and complex”.

John happily clicked on the new tab, glad someone was willing to listen to him one on one, as if he was worth someone's time. John got more into details, into why his flatmate’s attitude towards him bothered him so much and how it made him feel like utter shite. Tea&Biscuits offered taylor-made advice and gave him heartfelt words of encouragement that made him feel so much lighter and better about the whole situation that John almost laughed at how angry he had become apparent by the end of the day.

**ColdToast - So are you some kind of shrink irl?**

**Tea&Biscuits - No, but the knowledge certainly comes in handy. I deal with a lot of people, as well as a lot of problems.**

**ColdToast - Well, thanks anyway. I feel loads better. Are you a regular on this channel?**

**Tea&Biscuits - I’ll find you if you come back, don’t worry.**

All was well again for a while after that. John didn't let Sherlock wind him up so much, and he learned to take time out for himself when he felt the urge to punch him in his stupidly perfect face. John also learned to tell him no. Tea&Biscuits had been right: John was a bit of a pushover where Sherlock was concerned, never realizing how much power he was giving his friend over him, as he ordered him about like his own personal servant rather than treating him as a friend. 

His newfound serenity lasted for all of a week until Sherlock went and did something incredibly stupid again, which John couldn’t deal with it on his own. John went straight to his laptop this time, connected to the chatroom, but then hesitated when he saw Tea&Biscuits’ username in the list of users. What if he didn’t remember him? And maybe he didn’t have time, or had problems of his own. John doubted he could deal with rejection right now, even coming from a stranger. He was still hesitating when a new private tab flashed at him. John clicked on it to enlarge the window with a smile. 

**Tea&Biscuits - Something wrong?**

**ColdToast - Yes, actually. How did you know?**

**Tea&Biscuits - You have been connected to the chatroom for a while, but haven't typed anything, not even a general greeting. Is it your flatmate again?**

John told him everything. It was like opening a faucet, all of his worries spilling out at once. He belatedly apologized for the quite frankly unbelievable tale he had just shared, but once more, Tea&Biscuits merely talked him through his frustrations, taking his time, lending a metaphorical friendly ear. By the end, John already felt better, more confident and relaxed. He tried to get Tea&Biscuits to open up, tried to reciprocate all the help he had been given, but his Internet stranger obviously didn’t want it, so John didn’t insist and thanked him again before turning in for the night.

No nightmares. He usually had them after such a bad day as he’d had, but talking to Tea&Biscuits had relaxed him enough that he had slept peacefully through the night, just like the last time. He stretched but then froze when he heard Sherlock arguing downstairs. His friend was on the defensive, so it was most likely his brother rather than Lestrade or a client. The siblings' bickering could last a while, so John shuffled downstairs even if he’d rather avoid a double dose of Holmes this early in the morning. He had quite enough of the one, thank you very much. John mumbled a collective hello when he crossed the living room to hide in the kitchen with a nice cuppa, waiting until he heard the sound of the umbrella tapping its way out to the exit. 

“What did he want?” John asked Sherlock when he was certain Mycroft had left for good. 

“A case.”

“And you accepted?” 

That was rare. The last time Sherlock had accepted a case from Mycroft, he’d then foisted it on him, so John hoped he wasn’t going to make a habit of it. Nothing a deadpan “no” couldn’t take care of now that he knew how to not be a pushover. John made a mental note to find a way to thank Tea&Biscuits properly one of these days.

“I wasn't going to, but it’s inordinately complex and fascinating. I did weasel the best lodgings and transport out of the deal for us however. It's in the south of France.”

John beamed, because that almost sounded like a frigging free vacation, and he might actually get a bit of sun out of it, even if it was not the best of seasons to go on the Côte d'Azur! Still beat the London gray. Of course, now John felt a bit guilty he hadn't bothered to be polite to Mycroft, but in his defense, his presence rarely promised anything good.


	2. Then it got Weird

A week later, John returned to Baker Street with a sun tan, a smile, and a sulking Sherlock in tow. The case had been terribly easy, leaving them the rest of the time there, all paid for, to lounge on the beach and at the terrasses of the cafés to take advantage of the hot spring weather. John had even sent Mycroft a postcard to say Sherlock had solved the case and hated him, but that personally, he was having a grand time and thanked him for sending them there, that he'd make sure Sherlock got a decent tan -which he did even if it was a bit on the red side. Sherlock had bemoaned the down time, but John felt like his batteries were full and that he could take on the world.

As soon as they entered their flat, Sherlock fell face-first into the couch and told him to send Mycroft a text to come retrieve the stupid diary they'd been sent to that sunny hell for. John sighed at being ordered about again, but agreed since it was work related. He then went about doing the myriad things that needed to be done when returning from holiday. A good thing his batteries were full, because was knackered by the time he went to bed.

The next morning, Sherlock was back to sniping at someone, and John knew without a doubt it had to be Mycroft. Poor guy was going to take the brunt of Sherlock’s annoyance because John had completely ignored his foul mood during their imposed holidays.

“Morning Mycroft,” John chirped when he made it downstairs. “When I said at your earlier convenience, I didn't necessarily mean at the crack of dawn. Tea?”

“Please. I just thought I'd get it out of your hands before Sherlock thought of destroying it in retaliation. He never liked being used as a carrier pigeon.”

John snorted from the kitchen and came back with a tray, handing Mycroft his cup, then another to Sherlock than he pretended to take with great reluctance even though John knew he enjoyed his morning tea, more so if he had prepared it. John grabbed his own and settled on the arm of Sherlock's ugly lump of an armchair to face their guest.

“The sun seems to have agreed with you,” Mycroft commented between two sips, gesturing between his golden tan and his brother's lobster complexion. Sherlock’s scowl deepened, while John beamed and nodded at Mycroft, then whispered conspiratorially.

“I did butter him up with sun cream, believe it or not. I think I should have gone with the straw hat.”

They shared a smile, but John was really fighting against a severe case of giggles. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at them, and John could see him gathering steam to throw a tantrum in three… two….

“Maybe if you weren’t so lazy and actually moved your large behind to do your own legwork for once, I wouldn’t have had to waste my precious time in such a-”

John tuned him out, having heard that particular rant at least a dozen times before. He shared an eye roll with Mycroft, then they did their best to talk Sherlock down from his high horse and smooth his ruffled feathers, both promising to find him a good case.

“I'm sure John will. You, on the other hand, have been utterly useless, brother. You can leave by the way. You're stealing John’s seat.”

John slapped Sherlock’s arm, hissing at him to be polite.

“Worry not, John. I am quite used to his appalling lack of manners. Thank you for the tea,” he added as he got up, placing the empty cup back on the tray. “I do so rarely have the opportunity to finish my morning tea uninterrupted.”

John walked Mycroft to the door, which was ridiculous since it was right there, not like he'd get lost, but John was still feeling a sufficient amount of gratefulness towards him to be a gracious host. Besides, it allowed him to escape Sherlock’s foul mood. Mycroft looked over his head at his brother with a worried expression, then back down at him, seeming to want to add something. In the end, he only shook his head and said goodbye.

John wondered what that had been about. He observed Sherlock himself, but he couldn't see anything amiss apart from the usual melodrama. What had worried Mycroft? Should  _ he _ be worried? Was it a danger night? Or...well, a danger day, he supposed. He saw no reason for it, but John decided to stay at Sherlock’s side all day despite his foul mood. Just in case. 

By the end of the day, John had still not noticed anything wrong, but he was no Holmes, so he remained vigilant. Sherlock was now in one of his quiet experimental phases,which John usually avoided because they could become quite explosive, but he kept an eye on the mad genius from the living room anyway, ready to duck for cover at the slightest hint of a spark. John even cancelled a blind date Sarah had fixed up for him with a friend of hers, which he had found weird from the start, so he didn't actually feel bad for calling it off. To pass the time, he opened his laptop, thinking of updating his blog, but he went back to the relationship chat room instead, and for no particular reason for once. He read other people's problems instead and found it therapeutic in a the-grass-isn't-always-greener-on-the-other-side-of-the-fence kind of way. Some of the stories he read there were actually funny, although other users had probably thought his own were funny too. Soon, Tea&Biscuits appeared in the chat and opened a private window.

**Tea&Biscuits - Is everything alright?**

**ColdToast - I'm happy to say I can answer that by the affirmative for once. I'm just worried for my flatmate.**

**Tea&Biscuits - Any particular reason?**

John hesitated. If you didn't know the Holmes brothers, it did seem like he was being overdramatic.

**ColdToast - I know it's going to sound silly, but his brother looked at him strangely when he visited this morning.**

**Tea&Biscuits - You're right. It does sound silly. It's probably nothing.**

**ColdToast - That man does nothing by accident. If he looked worried, he must have had a good reason for it.**

**Tea&Biscuits - You make him sound like a machine.**

**ColdToast - He might be, at that. He's flawless. I doubt he's ever known failure. Far, far above us common of mortals. At least my flatmate has his flaws. Lots and lots of them, so I guess it's easier to relate to him, even though he's as much a genius as his brother.**

Tea&biscuits was unusually quiet after that proclamation, so John apologized for boring him.

**Tea&Biscuits - Would you know your flatmate isn’t as perfect as he seems if you weren’t living with him?**

**ColdToast - Some. Not to the extent I do, sure, but I’d still know he’s a manipulative ass, yeah.**

**Tea&Biscuits - Imagine for a moment that you got to know his brother the same way, you would realize he’s just as flawed. Nobody is perfect, and there are no such things as cyborgs.**

John tried to imagine having Mycroft as a flatmate, but he just couldn't picture it, not even a little. After all this time knowing him, John had never thought of the der Holmes returning to a home at the end of the day, having no trouble assuming he was always at his desk working, never sleeping, which was ridiculous and medically impossible. Mycroft was only human. He ate, after all. Cake, according to Sherlock, and he drank tea like any other normal Englishman, but that was about all John knew of Mycroft outside of his British Government persona.

**ColdToast - There is no way I can know that man the same way I do his brother. He is simply… unapproachable. **

**Tea&Biscuits - You’re being ridiculous. He’s only a man, like you and me. You’ve made him out to be something inhuman in your mind.**

**ColdToast - Still don’t see how I could get to know him. He would probably mock me if I tried.**

**Tea&Biscuits - You have his phone number?**

**ColdToast - Yes? **

**Tea&Biscuits - Well then, I see no problem. The solution is actually so simple you never thought of it.**

John hadn't even realized there was a problem to begin with bit but he continued reading Tea&Biscuits' advice because it was usually good.

**Tea&Biscuits - Just ask him something, anything, as long as it's personal and doesn't involve his brother.**

John tried to think of something Mycroft might answer and not murder him over for overstepping his boundaries. He imagined a number of ridiculous questions, for too long, no doubt, because by the time he came out of his thoughts, Tea&Biscuits had logged off with a simple good night.

John closed his laptop and returned to his musings after checking on Sherlock 's wealthfare once more - no change there.

Mycroft… John knew next to nothing about him, so any odd question should be safe as long as it wasn't crass. His favourite colour? Probably black, like his kidnap car and umbrella. No. Favourite cake? He'd take that as a jab at his diet. Pass. What does Mycroft do except work all the time anyway? And a light bulb finally illuminates over his head: John had it, a perfectly innocent question at that and which would tell him a hell of a lot about the mysterious man. John started typing his question when he realized how late it was, then he began to wonder why he was doing this at all and turned his phone off. He glanced at his laptop suspiciously. Why did he let a stranger convince him into texting Mycroft? Tea&Biscuits was a very persuasive person and John trusted him because of his help the last couple of times, but John had no interest whatsoever in getting to know Mycroft better. It would be like fraternising with the enemy. Sherlock would hate it.

But why would Tea&Biscuits push him to do such a thing? If he really had his best interests at heart… Could it be so John had another friend besides his troublesome flatmate? It seemed a bit far fetched… 

On the other hand, if this internet stranger did  _ not  _ have John's best interests at heart, but rather his own, which was much more likely given the source, why was he nudging him none to subtly to contact Mycroft? Who was Tea&Biscuits? Could it be someone trying to break up his friendship with Sherlock? The Woman? John knew Irene Adler was alive, even if everybody thought he was too stupid to know any better, both Holmeses included. So he might be dealing with The Woman, or another of Sherlock's enemies, trying to isolate him, to weaken him, because John was a good backup, if nothing else.

Looking at the situation from the other angle, Tea&Biscuits could also be an enemy of Mycroft, attempting to gain leverage upon him by creating a friendship and thus a weakness, because despite all of Sherlock jibes at the man, Mycroft really was quite powerful after all. Seemed like a stupid plan though.

John shook his head to clear his mind of all this conspiracy nonsense that was brewing in his mind. No, it was more likely to be a way to get to Sherlock. It would also explain Mycroft's worried look at Sherlock: maybe he already knew of this faceless threat named Tea&Biscuits.


	3. When Fiction meets Reality

John slept uneasily for days, so he was on edge, jumpy, and sleep deprived until it got so bad, he accused a patient of being a spy and tried to pull his fake beard off. Unfortunately, he was wrong, and Sarah, as her boss, got quite upset with him. Then, as her friend, she dragged him out for a pint so he could tell her why he was so upset of late. It was a long story, and they were several pints in by the time he got through the whole conspiracy thing, and too sloshed to do anything about it except giggle and order more to drink. Sarah called a friend to get her back to her flat and John, who had been planning on getting a cab, decided against it when he saw the state of his wallet: cleaned out of cash. His best option was to walk back. Baker Street wasn't far, and he wasn't  _ that  _ drunk. Or so he thought. But home seemed to grow further away the more he walked. He stopped to get his bearings, pretty sure this time  _ this _ road would take him back to Baker Street, but a car honked before he started down that path and he turned to see a familiar, government-sanctioned kidnap-car, its door opening in invitation. 

John didn't hesitate climbing aboard, he feet like lead after all this walking around, while his legs felt like jelly. 

"Mycroft!" he greeted warmly, in a good mood from his night out. His voice lowered to a mere whisper then, Mycroft leaning in to hear the wisdom he had to impart. "Are you looking out for the spy too?" 

"The… spy?" 

"He's out after Sherlock, ain't he? Gotta be. But I outsmarted him. Didn't fall for his mind tricks, no sir, I did not."

"John, what on earth are you talking about?" 

John squinted at Mycroft, gauging whether the consummate politician was keeping his cards to himself or if he really was clueless for once when all thoughts of the conspiracy flew out of the window, replaced by the question he'd thought so long about to ask Mycroft. The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could think better of it too. 

"What do you do in your free time?" 

"I beg your pardon?" Mycroft asked, blinking owlishly at the sudden change of subject. 

"Was told you're it a robot… cyborg-man thingy, so what do you do for fun? When you're not working? You know, like normal people?" 

Mycroft's face lost some of that bewilderment, his lips curling up into a smug smile that made John more uncomfortable than he liked to admit, feeling much like a canary facing off against a vicious cat. Thankfully, the car slowed down and John recognized Baker Street. Without waiting for an answer, he spilled out of the car, intent on finding Sherlock to make sure he was alright, safe from all conspiracy. The walk to the front door was unusually long and windy, then the door itself wouldn't yield. The sigh behind him warned him of Mycroft's approach where his umbrella's infernal tap-tap on the concrete hadn't, the blasted thing left behind in the car. 

"If I may?" Mycroft asked. 

John let him have a go at the door, frowning when it opened without protest. Traitorous thing. The stairs were proving difficult too, so John reluctantly agreed to accept Mycroft's help, although, as he leaned into him, John had to admit he smelled quite good. Probably some overpriced cologne he could never pay himself with his small salary, but it didn't hurt his wallet to inhale it off of Mycroft's skin. 

"What have you done to John?" 

John smiled upon hearing his friend's voice, glad to find him safe. 

"Apart from helping him find his way home, you mean? You're welcome, by the way. He was going in the wrong direction entirely." 

"Oooh, that's why it was taking so long," John realized, two sets of piercing blue eyes snapping in his direction. "Tea!" he exclaimed, needing to get out of such intense scrutiny. 

John bustled into the kitchen, huffing at the mess Sherlock had made of it in his absence. Why were there so many eyeballs on the counter? Looking for tea-bags, John broke his favourite cup and gave up on trying to be a good host for their uninvited guest. He went to the door and bellowed for Mrs Hudson to bring them tea instead. It worked when Sherlock did it after all. 

"AND BISCUITS!" John added and began laughing. 

Tea and biscuits. The mysterious conspirator weaving a web around Sherlock. Or Mycroft. Maybe both.

“Eeny, meeny, miny, moe… ” John giggled.

“What's wrong with him?” Sherlock complained, looking at his brother as if he was responsible. 

“Over indulged his drinks, brother mine. Obviously.”

John pouted at them talking about him as if he wasn't even there and made his way passed Mycroft to the sofa to make himself comfortable because gravity was becoming heavier with every passing second. 

“Now who's stating the obvious?" Sherlock muttered." I meant  _ why _ is he?"

"I'm not sure. He's hiding something."

"He has been all week, you know, or were you too busy observing your own belly button?" 

"I'm not the one living with him. I'm actually busy with important-" 

"Yes, yes. We all know how self-important…" 

The familiar bickering between the two brothers continued, the dulcet voices of the two baritones lulling John to sleep as he hugged the plump pillow under his head. 

  
  


The next day, John woke up to a massive headache. He groaned as he pressed the palm of his hands into his eyes, wishing the pounding in his head and the light in the room to extinguish all at once. 

"I called you in sick." 

John couldn't make sense of why Sherlock sounded like he was sitting atop his head so he risked an eye open, blinking against the harsh light to find him perched on the sofa armrest, looking down at him like a vulture assessing the deadness of its meal.

John mumbled some thanks. He hated missing work, especially because of something as stupid as drinking too much. Not wanting his while sat to go to waste, John forced himself to get up and find some water to gobble down a couple of aspirin tablets. He went to the loo, avoided looking at his reflection in the mirror, then fell down in the sofa again, exhausted by the trip through the flat but hoping it would do him some good. Sherlock, on the other hand, hadn't moved. 

“You need to tell me what's been bothering you.”

"Nothing. Go away." 

John made a shooing motion to emphasize he meant it, not that Sherlock ever listened. 

"You were drunk, John. It's unacceptable. What if there had been a case?" 

John threw a cushion in his direction, hoping to unbalance him, but Sherlock deftly avoided it.

"It's not like you, John. You don't… indulge, particularly not alcohol given your family's history. So something is weighing on you. You're… worried. But not for yourself."

"Dear God, don't tell me you're going to psychoanalyze me now?" 

"Don't be insulting, John. I'm just deducing you."

Sherlock hopped off the armrest and began to pace in front of him, the back and forth making him dizzy and nauseous.

"You're worried for someone else, someone close. Not your sister, obviously. You haven't called her all month. Not Mrs Hudson either given the way you ordered her about last night."

"What? I did what?" John asked, feeling the blood in his veins freeze. 

"Demanded tea. And biscuits. Then laughed about it like a maniac for five minutes."

John groaned as he hid his face in his hands. It was worse than he imagined. This was exactly why he avoided drinking too much. What had he been thinking? 

"What else did I do?" he asked, because he might as well get this ordeal over with and make a list of all the people he would need to apologize to. 

"You let Mycroft rescue you from the labyrinthic streets of your own city apparently," Sherlock sniffed as if this was the worse he could have done. "You kept giggling like a schoolgirl. Spouted a load of nonsense, then fell asleep in my lap." 

John blushed and covered his face.

"Oh God!" 

John fled to the bathroom, opened the cold tap and splashed his face with water. 

"Oh god…" 

He was never drinking again. Glimpses of his behaviour the previous night resurfaced. He'd been acting like an idiot. Like Harry. Like his father. He'd always despised their displays of drunkenness and wasn't any better. At least he couldn't remember insulting or hitting anyone before Mycroft took him back home. He should probably thank him for that as his rescue had no doubt saved him a lot of hassle. 

"John!" Sherlock protested from behind the door. "I wasn't finished!" 

What? Had he done something worse? He wasn't sure he wanted to know now. Yelling at Mrs Hudson to make him tea like she was her mais was bad enough. 

"Go away!" 

Sherlock must have listened, for once in his life, because it was quiet now. John decided he might as well shower now that he was there. It did him a world of good too. The sofa was murder on his body, even if he had allegedly used Sherlock as a pillow, but the hot water was doing a good job of relaxing his aching muscles. That done, he wrapped the towel around his waist to get a clean change of clothes from his room, intent on getting dressed and flee Baker Street before Sherlock could corner him with his inquisition. But as he opened the door, Sherlock stood right there. 

"Jesus! Have you been standing there the whole time?" 

"Of course I have. I told you I wasn't finished," Sherlock gave him that you're-an-idiot-for-asking look. "I know." 

"Know what?" John muttered as he pushed passed him to head up to his room for clothes that did not smell like an entire brewerie.

"You're worried about me. You think I'm in danger of some sort. A danger I'm unaware of, which is, quite frankly, ridiculous. Who put that idea in your head?" 

"Privacy, Sherlock!" John bellowed as he pushed Sherlock back out of his room to change. 

He blamed Tea&Biscuits for this whole debacle, or his own imagination, or before that, the worried glance Mycroft threw Sherlock’s way… John should have just asked him then what that was about. Maybe it wasn't too late? Holmeses weren't in the habit of forgetting anything, even something as insignificant as a glance. And John would know then if he was crazy, or if he actually had reason to fear for Sherlock's safety

John was not as surprised to find Sherlock lurking behind his door this time but he ignored his questions to go in search of his phone. He found it between the sofa's cushions unsurprisingly, but was glad to see that one, it still had enough battery, and two, that he hadn't sent anything stupid last night to anyone. 

After making sure Sherlock had lost interest in what he was doing, John sent Mycroft a text, probably for the first time ever. 

**I have a question. John**

**Another? MH**

John's finger hovered over the keyboard as he tried to figure that out? He must have spent some amount of time with Mycroft last night as he got him back home, so it stood to reason he had babbled his ear off and asked all sorts of idiocies.

**My car will pick you up in fifteen minutes if you'll take the time to listen to the answer this time. MH**

John stared at the new message. What the hell had happened between them last night? He had a vague memory of being awfully close to him but couldn't figure out why or how… 

John decided to go down immediately to apologize to Mrs Hudson in a bid to avoid Sherlock’s incessant questioning. She forgave him, of course, telling him about how she'd been young and wild too, once upon a time. John made it out of memory lane just in time, and he climbed in the dark kidnap-car without hesitation, wondering if he was headed for Mycroft's office or the Diogenes Club, so he was a bit surprised when the car stopped in front of a nice town house with thick bushes and a heavy iron fence. Posh, but in an understated way. Hesitantly, John walked up to the door and rang the bell, surprised despite himself when Mycroft did something as plebeian as opening his own front door. 

“Uhm...hi,” John blurted out. “This is a bit… unexpected.”

“You caught me early.” He paused, looking him up and down, reading the details of his morning. “Did you actually bother to check the time, John? Or did my brother harrass you out of your much deserved hangover sleep?”

John glowered, thoughts of murdering his flatmate flashing through his mind. He was a doctor. He could be creative about it. 

“Ah, the latter, then. Tea?”

John nodded, a bit too enthusiastic about it, but he'd kill for a nice cuppa right about now. Mycroft led him into a modern kitchen, so spotless he had trouble believing it was ever used, but his host proved him wrong, plucking tea, cups, spoons and sugar from the cupboards with the assured movements of long habit, before directing him to the fridge to fetch the milk. John used the opportunity to discreetly check the time on the oven door. Seven-oh-five. He was going to murder Sherlock when he got back, the git.

Mycroft settled a fragile-looking porcelain teacup in front of him, complete with saucer and dainty spoon, as well as a couple of biscuits on the side. John just stared at the set up. Tea and biscuits. The scrape of the chair indicated Mycroft had taken a seat in front of him, so he forced himself to look away from the bloody tea and biscuits. If he was starting to see conspiracies in his breakfast, he might as well go and commit himself to the psychiatric ward. 

"So, this is your place?" he asked, leaping on the first thing to pop into his head. 

"Astute observation. Or I'm just a very relaxed burglar." 

John chuckled. He hadn't known Mycroft could be genuinely funny. 

"It's nice," John said, feeling awkward under his scrutiny. 

John prepared his tea the way he like it, the spoon clinking away against the side of the porcelain as he stirred it too vigorously. 

"This question of yours," Mycroft asked, always straight to the point, and his spoon slipped out of his grip, clinking a couple of times before a heavy silence settled over them. "Is it the same as last night's?" 

"Last might is a bit….blurry, to be honest." 

The other man hummed and took a sip of his tea, taking his time to savour it before setting it down. 

"No wonder. You were… what's the saying nowadays? Positively sloshed." 

That startled another laugh out of John and he relaxed a bit. He must not have offended Mycroft in any way last night if he was being so nice today. 

"Sorry," John apologised when his laughter died down. "I'm not mocking you. That sounded just so… out of character." 

He nibbled on a biscuit, feeling peckish now that he wasn't so nervous. They were good. They had look dry at first glance, but were actually very buttery and went well with the fragrant tea. He wondered what they were and where he could buy them, having never seen them before. 

"Langue de chat," Mycroft said. 

John stared upon hearing the foreign words. 

"French?" 

"Yes. It's the name of that biscuit you seem to be enjoying. It means cat's tongue." 

Mycroft smirked and John got the eerie feeling he was being played with.

"Okay. Alright. Erm… Yes, so I actually wanted to ask you: do you remember that day when you came to pick up the diary?" 

"Of course." 

"And I walked you to the door?" 

"Yes?" 

"Before you left… You looked at Sherlock, and you seemed, I dunno, worried? Do you remember why?" 

Mycroft nodded as if it was a perfectly valid question. Honestly John had thought he'd be laughed out of the room for asking something so random weeks after it had happened. 

"I wasn't worried  _ for _ Sherlock, to be exact, but worried  _ about _ him, or rather about his reaction," Mycroft explained. 

John frowned, because that hadn't helped as much as he had hoped. 

"His reaction to what?" 

"I was about to ask you on a date, and thought better of it. Sherlock can be so childish sometimes." 

John's mind actually went blank, because what Mycroft said made no sense.

"Come again?" John finally asked when he couldn't make heads nor tails of his riddle. 

Mycroft chuckled before he leaned closer, his voice dipping down as he answered once more. 

"There you were being so gentlemanly, deliciously tanned and golden, smiling at me as if you meant it… I was charmed. Honestly, who could blame me? I'm only human." 

John's eyebrows shot up, and he was momentarily lost for words. He stood, lukewarm tea and cat's biscuits forgotten for now. He… had to leave. The Holmeses dropped bombs like these all the time and expected him to just take it stoically, like a good little soldier. But this needed….time. And reflexion. It didn't solve his problem either, just compiled on top of it! He had come all the way here for nothing. Well… not nothing.

"John?" 

Mycroft looked uncertain. The first time John had ever seen on him and it was not a look John cared for.

"I need to think." 

"My chauffeur-" 

"No. Thank you. I need to walk, too." 

Mycroft nodded and followed him as he retraced his steps to the door.

"You can always come back," Mycroft said as farewell. "Anytime you need. Come back for tea and biscuits." 

Tea and biscuits… That again. John tried to shake off the bad feeling it gave him, but he had only gone a couple of steps out before he froze, recalling one the Holmes' favourite sayings, that there was no such thing as coincidence, that the universe was rarely so lazy or something of the sort. John whirled around, anger boiling away his confusion, he pointed an accusing finger at the taller man.

"You! That was you! Tea&Biscuits! And I thought he was trying to put a wedge between me and Sherlock, or use me against you!" 

"Well… I wouldn't mind the latter right now, and that would certainly cause the former," Mycroft admitted. John groaned in frustration, the image of him literally against Mycroft seated into his mind in too much detail, and it didn't even repel him, which just made him angrier.

"I can't believe you! You're as bad as Sherlock!" 

"I did warn you. No one is perfect. And I am most certainly not a machine." 

John blushed at the thought of everything he'd shared with Tea&Biscuits. .

"I can't believe you!" he repeated, at a loss for anything better to say. He flounced away, slamming the gate behind him, and took a left, not caring if he was going in the right direction.


	4. When ignoring it does not make it go away

John made it back to Baker Street eventually. Hr slammed the door downstairs, then the one upstairs, before giving his bedroom door the same treatment, and still, it didn't make him feel any better. Nor did it give Sherlock the hint that he wanted to be left alone because there was a soft knock at his door a minute later.

"Go away!" he shouted. 

"What did Mycroft want?" 

"Nothing. Leave me alone, Sherlock! Please?" 

John heard him stomp his way back down, but he only got another minute of peace before his phone beeped. He expected a text from his flatmate, do he opened it without thinking. 

**Sherlock is very unhappy with me. MH**

**I don't care. John **

He turned off his phone, closed his eyes, hoping for some peace so he could try to make some sense out of the chaos he had somehow created, but now he could hear Sherlock bickering on the phone downstairs, and given the invectives, it had to be his brother on the other end of the line. John tried to ignore it, ignore the two brothers and how they always turned his life upside down. Fortunately, the stress he'd put himself under all week thinking Sherlock was in danger, as well as last night's drinking abuse finally caught up to him, and he fell fast asleep.

John gasped and sat up straight in his bed, panting for breath, his heart beating too fast and a hardness in his pants that was difficult to ignore. 

"Fuck…" 

He had just had the most vivid dream of… John closed his eyes, biting his lip at the images still fresh in his mind… of Mycroft. John willed his erection away by sheer force of will. He refused to touch himself, to acknowledge Mycroft could arouse him in any way, even in a dream. This was NOT happening. 

But now that Mycroft had planted the seed of that idea in his mind, damn him, now that he had shown him his caring side through Tea&Biscuits, his personal side in his own home, how funny and charming he could be when it was just the two of them… 

John seethed at the certainty the bastard had calculated every one of his moves, knowing the exact outcome if he played the right moves. Furious at the idea this was just a game for him, that maybe he just wanted to spite Sherlock, or to get this exact reaction out of him… John closed his eyes and slowly counted to ten, slowing his breathing, his heart rate… Counting again, calmer this time. John let go of his anger at having been played, and decided to ignore it all. That was the best way to win against Mycroft and his games. Just ignore him. That didn't work with Sherlock, simply due to the fact he lived with the man, but it would work against Mycroft. He'd make sure of that. He wouldn't let him win.

John went downstairs to prepare lunch. He felt like a weight had been taken off his shoulders. There was no threat against Sherlock, had never been one in fact, and Mycroft did not exist as far as he was concerned. 

"John? What happened? Mycroft won't say." 

Sherlock sounded petulant at not knowing something, but worried too. It was kind of nice that he cared enough to ask. 

"Nothing. Stop imagining things. Risotto? Might as well cook since I'm not working today."

Sherlock nodded, but he looked at him askance, as if trying to figure him out, then he followed him in the kitchen watching him like a hawk while he prepared their meal. John wanted to roll his eyes at how predictable he was. However, by the end of the day, Sherlock almost seemed convinced everything was back to normal and he returned to his experiments. John was bored now that he'd managed to reassure Sherlock all was well, but he simply refused to turn on his phone or laptop so as to avoid a certain someone, so he was glad when Lestrade showed up that evening with a case so interesting it had them running for three whole days.

Sherlock slept like a log in his room, out like a light in his post-case crash, but he was still breathing, John had checked after the first twelve hours. Taking advantage of the quiet reigning in their flat for once, John decided to write up the case while it was still fresh in his mind. When he opened his computer, he realized he had left his chat room open, a private tab at the forefront flashing from unread messages. John wondered if he forgot to close the page or if Sherlock had been snooping, both just as likely.

His jaw clenched at the sight however. The way Mycroft had tried to manipulate him still ranked, so he closed the tab without looking at the message waiting for him. He opened a new word doc instead, and started writing up the case when the text took a life of its own. John took his fingers off the keyboard, but sure enough, more text kept appearing. He read it over, knowing it was not random and not at all what he had been typing. 

**John, really, you can't avoid me forever** .

Of course it Mycroft bloody Holmes.

"That's just plain creepy," he muttered and the screen wrote back immediately.

**I'll take that as a compliment. **

John stared at the words. If it was anyone but Mycroft, he might feel afraid. Still, his heart was beating fast as he looked around for a camera before he finally noticed the tiny light indicating his webcam was on. 

"You're spying on me?" 

**I thought that was a given.**

John slammed the laptop shut, hoping the great hit hadn't bugged the flat too, taking a small amount of relief in the fact Sherlock would know if he had and taken them out. Yet, he still felt uneasy as he went to the bathroom, in the shower, in bed… HeHe couldn't wait for Sherlock to wake up so he could make him debug the flat again. 

A few days later, as John shuffled downstairs for breakfast, John found Mycroft already there, sweet-talking his way into getting Sherlock to do his legwork again. John took one look at the man, the scene pausing dramatically as the two brothers both stared back at his unusual silence. John noped right out of there and back upstairs to the relative safety of his bedroom. So… the cowardly approach. It was not his usual style, but it didn't look like Mycroft was taking the hint, and Holmeses didn't usually need big hints to get the message, so this one was being stubbornly obstinate about it.

Fifteen minutes later, there was a knock at the door, and John considered going out his window until he heard Sherlock's voice. 

"John?" 

In his defense, his flatmate didn't usually knock. 

"Come in," he sighed. 

Sherlock didn't need to be asked twice. He took him in, deducing him, his frown deepening with every passing second. 

"What's going on between you and Mycroft?" 

"Nothing." Sherlock scowled, looking about to lecture him so John cut him off. "It's hard to explain. Mycroft is… Well, I think he's harassing me." 

Once he had gotten those words out, John started giggling at the very idea as it was so… ridiculous. John told Sherlock to sit down and he explained everything to him in detail. By the time he was finished, Sherlock was not finding the situation amusing at all.

"I didn't think he'd use his powers for evil."

"With great power comes great responsibility," John mused, wondering if Mycroft had ever done such a thing before and how it had turned out. .

"That's a very deep, yet adequate thought, John." 

John chuckled.

"It's actually from Spiderman, I can't take credit." 

Sherlock dismissed the issue, then began to lay out a plan of action to counter his brother's techniques.

"Unfortunately for you, my brother usually gets what he wants. I blame you for catching his attention in such a base way." 

"I didn't  _ do _ anything!" 

"Well, I can't account for bad taste," Sherlock said with a smirk that took the edge off his cutting words. 

"You're a twat."

But a good friend, he realized, as they plotted against his brother. 

"We could pretend you're in a committed relationship, but you're not a good enough actor to convince Mycroft." 

"Or I could just be in a real relationship if you stopped sabotaging them," John grumped. 

"You let me sabotage them." 

"That's not true!" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Not all the time," John added lamely, because it was true he was glad to see Sherlock whisk him off when his date turned out to be horrendous. 

"You could join a gay hate group, but Mycroft would only rise to the challenge." 

"Next you'll be asking me to become a monk." 

"Is that really out of the question?" 

"I feel like you're not being very serious about this… There's got to be something we can do to get him off my back." 

"I am. Here's what we can do…"

Sherlock exposed a plan of total Mycroft avoidance until he lost interest. One much more complete and all encompassing that John had tried to pull off. It might actually work. 

"Out of sight, out of lust?" John quipped, relieved at having a solution to his not so little problem. 

Sherlock chuckled and got to work. He disabled the cameras on his phone and laptop, debugged the flat - again, made John learn every street, back alley and rooftop that was CCTV-blind so he could navigate around Mycroft's ever present eye. He blocked his brother's number entering, but not leaving, John insisted, just in case Sherlock had a real emergency. He wasn't going to put his life in jeopardy just to avoid a little stalking. 

And it worked… up to a point. John hadn't heard from or seen Mycroft for weeks. Surely the man had given up on him by now, turned his attention elsewhere. But what John had not accounted for was for Mycroft to already be sitting there in his flat when he got back from work, coming in uninvited since Sherlock had not warned him to stay away like he had a couple of times before. John realized meeting him was bound to happen at some point He was like a bad penny. At Sherlock was there to play buffer, and by the looks of it, the two brothers had been arguing for a while already. However, as John entered the room, Sherlock sank further into his chair and bluntly told him their plan was a failure, and that he might as well accept a date with Mycroft so he could get this obsession out of his system.

John felt the blood drain out of his face, appalled that even Sherlock was giving up. 

"You… You can't be serious. Sherlock, you promised…" Then, so fast John might have missed it had he not been begging at his feet, Sherlock winked at him. He had a plan. 

John let the fight drain out of him, dropping his head and his shoulders in defeat, he turned to Mycroft and nodded in acceptance. 

"I hope you're happy," he muttered. 

To his credit, Mycroft didn't actually look too smug about winning his date. Weird. John had expected the git to be annoyingly self-satisfied about getting his way, but he merely said when his chauffeur would pick him up and left it at that. John was almost disappointed by the normalcy of the exchange, feeling wrong footed all over again. 

John only hoped Sherlock had a foolproof plan and was not simply throwing him out to the wolves for a good case. Even if it was a single wolf, there was no contest Mycroft was THE big bad wolf.

  
  



	5. You just have to deal with it head on

"You're simply going to have to make it the worst date Mycroft has ever had. He'll be so disgusted with you, his passing fancy will evaporate." 

Could it be that the easy? Give the man what he wants for him to realize he doesn't want it at all? It could work, he supposed. After all, he himself had lusted after this girl when he was younger, but when he'd finally gotten a date out of her, he'd been so underwhelmed he hadn't asked for a second. Could Mycroft fixation on him be all it was? John knew he was nothing special, more so when compared to a Holmes. John finally agreed with the new plan. 

"So how do I do that?" 

"Not my area. Just do what you usually do. God knows how little success you have when you try your best." 

"That's because of you!" John protested, swatting his friend's arm. 

"Oh. Right. So maybe I should make an appearance and drag you away for a case?" 

"Ha! So you admit it?" 

"It's been known to happen… but it usually is a real emergency." 

"The cat in the tree?" 

"It ate an important clue." 

"You thought it did. And you were wrong." 

Never liking to be proved wrong, Sherlock huffed in annoyance and made to leave to sulk in his room, but John caught him by the sleeve.

"Wait! You have to help me!" 

"Arrive late. Dress down, he'll probably take you to one of his fancy restaurants. Don't bother with politeness and be as dull as you can. Smalltalk will do. Some of your terrible poetry too." 

"I will not write Mycroft a poem. Besides they're not so bad." 

Sherlock shrugged.

"Just bore him to death. It shouldn't be hard."

John knew he should feel insulted by the advice, but he took it to heart, and prepared himself as if he was going to war. 

The next day, John sent Mycroft's chauffeur away just so he could arrive late. As Sherlock had predicted, it was a posh French restaurant, smaller than he had expected, but with more waiting staff than he was comfortable with. John chuckled to himself when he realized all them were better dressed than he was. He ignored the maître d' and pointed at the table where he glimpsed a head of thinning ginger hair.

"I'll just get myself over there, I'm a tad late."

John plopped himself down in the chair facing Mycroft without a word. He had to bite back the apology for his tardiness that wanted to make its way out, bred out of decades of good manners. Mycroft just arched an eyebrow, not bringing it up himself. Fine. Playing hard to anger. He could work with that. 

John continued the hostilities and took off his serviceable coat, frayed at the seams, but still good for a year or two. He revealed what Sherlock had dubbed his "ugliest checkered shirt and nondescript jumper", although John was loath to tell him they were his favourite. Not what he would wear on a fancy date, but he did wear them more often than not and made a mental note to ask Sarah or Molly about them. Surely Sherlock was exaggerating… For tonight however, his clothes were ideal, completely inappropriate for such a posh restaurant and well-dressed "date". Once more, Mycroft did not comment, even if there was a slight tremor in his jaw. 

Then, to add insult to injury, John ordered a beer to the confused sommelier. He thought he had finally won when Mycroft finally cleared his throat to speak, but instead of telling him off, he spoke to the waiter in French. The sommelier smiled and nodded excited, commenting on an excellent choice.

"What did you say?" John asked suspiciously.

“You wanted… beer," his nose scrunched up at the word. "So I suggested the next best thing they serve here.”

“Which is?”

“It contains alcohol and bubbles. It's close enough.”

“What? Champagne?” John scoffed. He hated the stuff. “No, nothing so cliché. A clairette de die, on the other hand… You'll like it, it's very refreshing."

John doubted it, thinking Mycroft was just being a snob. John couldn’t wait for Sherlock to arrive and ruin the date for once, because so far his rudeness and lack of class hadn't so much as rustled a feather.

"You realize, of course, that most restaurants don't serve beer?" 

John jumped on the occasion and went on a rant about beer and people pretending they don't like it and how everyone likes to pretend to fit in to the acceptable norm and make everything worse. Infuriatingly, Mycroft ended up by agreeing with a smile, and John understood the other man had only set him up to make him talk to him.

"Stop manipulating me," John growled. 

"Make me." 

John didn't need to be asked twice. Dropping all pretence, he told him exactly what he thought of him and his high-handed ways. He was hurling abuse at the other man, but it was all true: the manipulations, the lies, the stalking at best, voyeurism at worse… against all reason, Mycroft seemed pleased by what he was hearing.

"You see? I'm not perfect. Only human. Isn't that what you wanted?" 

How he regretted having opened to Tea&Biscuits. 

"No! I was just… curious." 

"Seems odd, don't you think?" 

"Wait…" John thought back on how that particular conversation had started. "No. _ You're _ the one who manipulated me into being curious about you. I didn't give a damn before _ you _ brought it up!" John took a deep breath, nervously passing a hand through his hair. "Just stop it. Stop confusing me." 

"I think you're confusing yourself. I'm quite clear on what I want and I'm sure you would quite agree if you only gave it a chance. Think about it. What do you have to lose?" 

John didn't want to think about it at all, but the pompous sommelier returned with perfect bad-timing and his not-champagne, so he was forced to stew over the thought. He knew Mycroft was once again planting seeds in his mind, and they were blooming, damn him. John couldn't stop thoughts from tumbling into his mind. If he gave Mycroft a chance and it didn't work… well, it wouldn't change a thing actually. If it did, by some miracle, work out between them, Sherlock would be mad, but then again he'd never liked his girlfriends and John had no intention of becoming as asexual as his flatmate for his sole convenience. John was sure his anger wouldn't last anyway. Besides, this might be his only chance to finally get a leg over. It had been so long long, John refused to rally the weeks since he'd bedded anyone. Alright, months. 

On the bright side, he had to admit Sherlock would not be able to scare Mycroft away the way he did his girlfriends. You might as well try to dislodge a mountain. There were other good points in his favour: whatever Sherlock said, Mycroft was actually good-looking; the power trip was kind of hot; he was caring and thoughtful in his own creepy way; and last but not least, he actually liked Sherlock, or at least, tolerated him in a brotherly sort of way. What were the disadvantages then? There had to be a ton given how reluctant he was… But… John raked his brain. Mycroft was pompous, but tolerable; smarmy but with good reason; annoying, but in an interesting sort of way… in fact, the main reason why John didn't want to consider Mycroft as a potential boyfriend was mainly because he was Mycroft, a genius manipulator and control freak. 

"I see you're coming around," the insufferable man said and he was too used to Sherlock reading him the same way to be bothered that Mycroft did it too.

"Yeah, coming around to the fact this whole date thing was doomed from the start," John replied, thinking it was the perfect prompt for Sherlock to make one of his dramatic entrances to whisk him away "for a case” as he had done dozens of times before. John waited for a beat, but nothing happened. He looked behind Mycroft, towards the entrance, but there was no Sherlock in sight. He sighed and drank a sip of the bubbly stuff in his glass as inelegantly as he could, expecting to hate it anyway. He didn't, it was good, and John had to pretend to grimace at the taste. Fresh and just sweet enough, without leaving that foul aftertaste champagne usually did. Judging by Mycroft's smug smile, he wasn't fooled by his display, and okay, the elder Holmes might not be a machine as he had first thought but it would be nice if he could stop being so bloody perfect all the time. John opened the menu so as to provide a barrier between them. It wasn't hiding or cowardly if you were doing it to retreat and regroup. It was strategy.

However, his strategy so far had been an abysmal failure, his rescue back-up plan had not showed up yet, and Sherlock rarely waited until he was actually served food to come swooping in, so John was forced to continue this masquerade. It didn’t mean he was willing to make it drag on, not if he had a say in the matter.

“Lettuce,” John told their waiter when he asked for their order.

The waiter looked appalled when he understood that's where his order started and ended. Even Mycroft looked taken aback for once. Ha! Pulled one over on him for a change.

But that small victory did not last long, Mycroft's order was ridiculously long and made his mouth water at the images it conjured. Damn him. John should have known his oh so cunning plan would backfire just as spectacularly as all the rest.

“I'm so sorry, John. I hadn't realized you were on a diet. You certainly don't need it,” Myc said when the waiter had deposited his appetising entrée and his own pitiful salad.

When the dish was finished and the waiter brought another plate to Mycroft, John was left to watch him eat. He had a new ploy then. Some people got really annoyed when people watched them eating, so John stared openly at Mycroft. He congratulated himself on being so very rude as he catalogued almost scientifically the way the other man held his cutlery, noting he had surprisingly long fingers, and were those freckles peeking out from just beneath the edge of his cuff? John looked back up at his retreating hairline. He was a ginger now that he thought about it, not in an in your face sort of way like his barista date had been, although it did make him wonder if Mycroft had more freckles. He could only see a few pale ones over the bridge of his nose and at his temples. His stiff collar and tie didn't let him investigate further though, and then he was startled to notice Mycroft staring right back at him. Feeling caught red-handed, John wondered if Mycroft knew what he had been thinking about, but he refused to look away. He refused to lose another battle. Mycroft smiled and it made his eyes crinkle a bit. He actually had a nice smile when it was genuine, lighting a sparkle in his eyes, or maybe that was just the bloody candle sitting on the table between them. When the hell had someone dropped off a candle there? 

Mycroft finally looked down. John had won. He could breathe again. But was it only because Mycroft was scraping the last of his second entree? Pre-main-dish? A hobbit would Know what to call it, and John's only consolation was that Mycroft was ruining his diet just to keep him there longer. John watched the fork disappear between his lips, then the pink tip of his tongue darted out to lick his lips clean, and John's cheeks flushed all of a sudden because that had been oddly sensual.

He shook his head to get rid of the idea. Mycroft and sensual should no be used in the same sentence. Ever. And now he had his smarmy smile back on. He _ had _ to know what he had been thinking and that was a bit not good.

The next dish arrived and his latest strategy had proved to be another failure. Worse was that John was starving, positively salivating at the heavenly smell coming from Mycroft’s plate, but he was doomed to watch him eat, hypnotized by the elegant gestures of his hands and his obvious enjoyment of the food. Mycroft found a way to make it even worse, pausing only to talk about culinary feats that made him even more hungry. His stomach finally gave up on decency and rumbled more loudly that he had thought possible.

“We could share?” Mycroft offered, holding out his fork with a steaming bite of roast covered in sauce.

John gulped and shook his head. He wanted to, but he wasn’t going to fall for Mycroft’s little tricks. He grabbed his glass of not-champagne and chucked it back. That would fill his stomach. Mycroft huffed and resumed his meal, talking agreeably all the while. John belatedly realized the drink was stronger than it seemed, as perfidious as the man who had ordered it. Alcohol on an empty stomach was maybe not such a good idea, but his glass had somehow refilled itself, because he was still sipping on it.

He narrowed his eyes at Mycroft. Just how many tactics was he using all at once against him. The man really was inhuman, starving him to death while he was being served yet another plate. So cruel.

But the plate was set in the middle of the table this time, and two spoons sat next to the most decadent slice of chocolate cake John had ever laid eyes on. It was practically begging to be eaten. What did it really matter, this battle of wills? John had obviously lost… he might as well enjoy a peaceful treaty. John grabbed one of the spoons and took a bite of the desert as it lay sprawled on its pristine plate. It tasted like sin and he closed his eyes. He might have moaned, it was that delicious, but it made him terribly thirsty too, so he drank more of the bubbly drink with every bite. 

“John!”

For fuck’s sake! Why did Sherlock have to arrive right when he finally had something to eat? Couldn’t he have gotten here a bit later, or a lot sooner? John took another bite before it was too late.

“What have you done to him?” Sherlock asked his brother.

“Nothing he didn’t want.”

“True,” John said, slurred really. “It was a complete failure. What took you so long?”

“There was a drug’s bust not long after you left. Suspicious timing.”

“Merely coincidental,” Mycroft replied.

“No such thing as coinky… Conkydence… Conkicidence… that word, you know?”

Sherlock took his glass from the table and sniffed it.

“Clairette, brother dear? You must be really desperate to get in his pants.”

“I would never take advantage of John in such a way. In fact, since you’re here to protect his virtue, I might as well leave him in your hands to take him back home?”

Sherlock must have nodded because Mycroft left after whispering in the crook of his ear that he hoped they would burn off the calories together next time around.

John's cheeks, already flushed from the alcohol, burned even more from that parting shot.

“But we won, right?” he asked Sherlock uncertainly.

“You’re not in bed with him, so count that as a win,” Sherlock muttered darkly as he helped him walk out with an arm supporting his weight. “For now.”

“You are a really, really good friend, Sherlock. You know that? You saved me.”

“Hardly. And unfortunately, I don’t think we diminished his interest in you. Quite the opposite, in fact. You’re going to need a miracle to get rid of him now.”

  



	6. And sometimes you win, even if you lose

John was regretting his life choices when he woke up with a hangover and he had to work at the clinic. He was four patients in, and had banged his head against his desk after the third STD from idiots who swore they never had unprotected sex, when the next patient walked in.

“Just a second,” he muttered, holding up a finger as he promised himself never to drink again.

“Oh, please, do take all the time you need, John,” came the smarmy reply.

John’s head snapped up.

“No. You can’t be here, Mycroft,” John hissed. “Not at work.”

“Looks to me like you could use a break.”

John huffed.

“As long as you’re not expecting me to give you a physical.”

“I wouldn’t mind, though. I seem to have overindulged last night.”

John snorted at the understatement, and Mycroft looked at him over the desk in amusement, his eyes going all crinkly again, something John had never known he had a fondness for before.

“Why are you really here?” John asked, more seriously.

“Would you believe me if I said the memory of you last night distracted me from my work?”

“I didn’t know you did anything as pedestrian as daydreaming.”

“I’m only human.”

He sounded a bit sad admitting it, but having him be so truthful for once prompted John to be nice. Despite what he had said, John walked around his desk to the examination table, which he patted.

“Hop on.”

He could have sworn Mycroft's eyes darkened.

“Don’t go imagining anything. I simply can’t bill you if I haven't given you the standard examination. NSH procedure, you know. I wouldn't want to lose my job.”

“I’m familiar,” Mycroft sighed, but he did take his vest off to fold it neatly over the chair.

He didn’t do something as undignified as “hopping on” though, but instead sat on the beat up old table as if it was a throne, which was quite amusing from his point of view. Mycroft certainly wasn't his usual kind of patient, not in this neighbourhood. His protection detail had to be going berserk right now. 

“Shirt off,” John said, a bit excited at the thought his musings about the man's freckles would soon be answered.

“Yes, doctor.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” John asked while Mycroft slowly loosened his blood-red tie before sliding it off from around his neck.

“I could call you Captain, if you’d rather?”

Oh God, that was enticing. Imagine giving orders to Mycroft and him not only obeying, but  _ liking _ it. A novel idea, to be sure, but one he had to file away, preferably forever. 

“Shirt,” John reminded him.

Mycroft kept eye contact as he undid every little button. It made John's mouth go dry. The slightest reveal of pale flesh enticing him to look closer so he could map out the freckles. John was breathing hard by the time he arrived to the last button. Damnit. He  _ was _ attracted to Mycroft. Maybe not at first, or maybe he had just been reluctant because he was Sherlock’s brother, but he was definitely seeing the attraction now. John took a step closer, into his personal space, more than a doctor ought to be for a simple physical. And the smell of his cologne hit him, reminding him of a fuzzy memory of Mycroft helping him up a flight of stairs, worried and caring. 

Mycroft’s breathing hitched at his proximity, which pleased him immensely. So John had power over this man after all, the most powerful man of the country. That was a heady feeling. It was exciting and excitement was what he craved more than oxygen.

John was at a crossroads. He knew the direction he should take, the sane road leading away from Mycroft. He would tell him to get dressed and leave, then try to continue avoiding him as best he could. But right now, he wanted to speed down the road to the unknown and ignore all the danger signs cautioning him away. 

John took matters into his own hands. It was  _ his _ decision and no one else's. With deliberation, John slid the now open shirt off of Mycroft’s shoulders and there they were, a myriad bronze freckles covering his skin in copper patches. John stepped closer still, between Mycroft’s legs, and kissed one shoulder, making the British Government sigh. That was hot too. He kissed the other and was stunned at how responsive Mycroft was when he had always imagined him to be stoic in all things. 

“I think I have come to a diagnosis,” John said against his skin.

“Already?”

John hummed and glanced up.

“You seem to be suffering from a bad case of touch deprivation. I don’t usually do home visits, but…”

“I'll have my chauffeur pick you up after work.”

“In a hurry?”

“You have no idea.”

Mycroft slid off the table and leaned into him so their lips were almost touching. 

"Don't make me wait," Mycroft added before he calmly turned around and dressed himself up to his usual standard. 

"You're such a tease," John chuckled as he returned to his desk. 

"You're one to talk," Mycroft retorted. "I'm looking forward to your visit." 

John shuffled on his chair, trying to adjust the bulge in his trousers. Mycroft wasn't duped and smirked at him as he walked over to repossess his vest. 

"Doctor," he said on his way out, as proper as you please, as if this had not been the filthiest thing to ever happen in his office, which was saying a lot about his lack of sex life. 

John waited for the door to close, then banged his head on the desk again before the next I-swear-I-got-an-STD-using-a-public-toilet walked in. 

The rest of the day both felt like the shortest and longest one he'd had to work through, in turn anxious and excited about meeting Mycroft that night. He had no idea what to expect since the other man alway managed to surprise him, but if he was honest with himself for once, John was up for anything he would throw his way.

The worst part was telling Sherlock about his plans. 

"I guess it was inevitable," Sherlock said, his sigh audible even across the line. "Just promise me one thing?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Don't ever,  _ ever,  _ mention anything about  _ it.  _ In fact, I'd better not look at you when you return or I'll just  _ see _ everything. Urgh. I think I might accept that case in Scotland, just to be on the safe side. I'll be back in a few days." 

John thought he was being a bit melodramatic, but then he tried putting himself in his shoes and imagining his best friend having sex with his sister and… Urgh… it was indeed something be would be going to Scotland to avoid. John wished him luck on his case instead, which Sherlock scoffed at before hanging up. In the end, Sherlock hadn't even been mad about his decision, only disgusted, which wasn't so bad. It certainly made John feel better about it since he hadn't wanted to put his friendship in jeopardy just to get a leg over. 

With a sigh, John readjusted his trousers and walked out to meet Mycroft's chauffeur. The drive to the town house went smoothly, except for his heartbeat that was thumping steadily louder and harder in his chest, the way it did as a soldier when he was going into battle. He supposed it was fitting, given how their relationship had evolved, a constant battle of wills until… Who had won? John didn't feel like he'd lost. He hadn't caved to Mycroft's demands but rather taken control as he made the first physical move on the other. Did Mycroft see it the same way? Or would he be all smug with the knowledge he had gotten what he wanted in the end?

Standing before Mycroft's front door, it was a bit late to have second thoughts, so he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and knocked. 

Mycroft opened with an apologetic smile, pointing at the phone he held against his ear. John wasn't even surprised, although hearing him speak a foreign language he couldn't even guess at did. After following him into the familiar kitchen, John chuckled when Mycroft set a cool beer in front of him, unsure whether he should take the gesture as a jibe or a kindness. He mouthed a thanks at him anyway and sipped on it while Mycroft's tone grew in speed and volume, sounding angrier by the second, until the conversation suddenly ended. 

"Apologies for that, John. I wasn't expecting the call, but I couldn't delay it either." 

John waved off his worries. He was almost glad for it, to be honest. He was more relaxed than he'd been at the door, as if the normalcy of a work emergency had thrown out all the doubts and expectations that had been weighing him down. It was just Mycroft being Mycroft. Mycroft who wanted him. Needed him too, maybe. 

God knows John needed someone to connect to, to be close to, with whom he could drop all pretence and barriers. Mycroft knew him better than most everyone, and John was one of the rare people Mycroft could trust. This could actually work. 

His reasoning, however sound, didn't mean his legs didn't feel like jelly as he stood, abandoning his beer to quench another kind of thirst. Mycroft's whole posture stiffened when he approached, his eyes following him, much darker than they had been just a minute ago. 

"Tell me you want me," John demanded when they were so close he could feel his every breath, soak in his Cologne and feel the heat emanating from his body. 

The other man breath hitched. He licked his lips as he tilted his head just a fraction to look him in the eye. 

"Of course I do. Yes. I want you, John." John smiled. Waited. He was being cruel, but Mycroft had been a bit not good of late. "Please?" he added.

Good enough. John would bet Mycroft never begged for anything. Just for him. That's how bad he wanted him. Desire sparked in his body, making everything feel more intense: his gaze, his smell, his presence… With a nod, John took Mycroft's hand and led him towards the stairs. 

"Your room?" he asked. 

He was too old to be doing gymnastics on a kitchen counter or against the fridge. Hell, they both were. Less spur of the moment, but his knees and back would thank him tomorrow. 

"Second on the left," Mycroft answered breathlessly. 

The door was already open, revealing a very large bed covered in white pillows and a thick grey comforter. 

"Perfect," John purred as he pulled Mycroft forward, easing him on the bed in front of him so they were positioned much like they had been in his medical practice. "Now, where had we left off?" 

John smiled at the whimper that escaped Mycroft's lips. He was going to enjoy this immensely. Let it not be said that to the victor went all the spoils. John may have lost this battle of wills against Mycroft in the end, but he fully intended to reap as much benefits from it as the winner. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! You Johncroft-lovers are always so lovely. You really cheered me up today!


End file.
